


Through sickness and health

by Bookish_penguin



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: (only a brief mention) - Freeform, Comfort, Fluff, Ineffable Bureaucracy (Good Omens), Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, They are, Typical sick fic, azi and crowley ships it, crowley is just so good at taking care of people ;_;, gabriel tries to be nice, oh no, oh...are our bosses dating??, owl Aziraphale !!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-27
Updated: 2019-08-27
Packaged: 2020-09-27 23:00:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20415706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bookish_penguin/pseuds/Bookish_penguin
Summary: It is Aziraphale's first time being sick, so things don't go so well. Crowley tries to apply his knowledge of being a nanny, gets a summon to Hell, makes a poor decision to bring Aziraphale along, and just about receives the worst (best) surprise of his life. It ends with a holiday in Paris.





	Through sickness and health

Crowley only got a brief sense that something was wrong when Aziraphale walks straight into a bookcase the third time that morning. Factoring in how he also microwaved tea instead of setting the water to boil, tried to read a book upside down, and talked back to a customer...yeah. Something was  _ definitely _ wrong. 

“Angel?” 

“Yes, mm’ dear?” 

“Could you come here for a sec?” 

Aziraphale tuts, “‘m quite busy here you know. Shelv...cata... _ putting _ books in this...” he gestures to the shelf in front of him vaguely, and squints at it as if it were suddenly some foreign contraption. “What was I saying again? Oh—I left the oven on!” 

He panics, scrambling past Crowley into the back where there is nothing remotely oven-shaped at all. Aziraphale still rummages about fervently as if expecting to find one any moment. Entire stacks of books disappear, a few shelves swap positions from opposite walls and the lights in the room flicker anxiously. 

“Angel,” Crowley says patiently, “You don’t have an oven.” 

Aziraphale stills. “I don’t...do I? Oh dear.” 

He sways dangerously. Crowley lunge forward to catch him. “Aziraphale?  _ Aziraphale _ !” 

The angel’s eyes flutter open and shut, misted over by a strange kind of unfocused haze. His face in the morning light shimmers like ivory, a fragile softness Crowley aches to touch. They are close. So close that he can trace every thread of blue in Aziraphale’s eyes, speckled with gold like stars woven into the sea. Oh for satan’s sake.  _ Not now _ . 

He is too busy stomping down whatever embers of desire that threaten to explode into fires within him. So when a hand grazes his cheek, the touch shocks and burns like a bolt of lightning. Crowley’s breath hitches in his throat. 

Aziraphale seems not to notice. He blinks slow and sensuously like a cat, as he continues to trace the curve of Crowley’s cheekbone with that agonisingly soft thumb of his. 

“You look divine today dear,” Aziraphale murmurs. “Did anyone tell you that?” 

Crowley prays for strength. Upstairs or downstairs does not give him any. Oh boy. He sucks in a shuddering breath to steel himself, before saying, “You must’ve hit your head too hard.” 

Aziraphale actually  _ whines _ . With the same energy as a sickly Victorian lady, in fact, as she touches her forehead and sinks into a chaise lounge. “I don’t doubt it. The room’s all spinny, my dear. Crowley—hold me tighter—”

Multiple chills shoot through him. “ _ What— _ oh for heaven’s sake!” 

He slaps a hand onto Aziraphale’s forehead and finds it burning hot to touch. Figures. Crowley blesses under his breath. To think he’d let the angel waltz about the whole morning while burning up with this kind of temperature, it was more demonic than anything else he’d ever done in his life!

“Angel,” he coaxes. “Angel, come on. Let’s go upstairs, okay?” 

Aziraphale grunts. He refuses to move. 

Crowley shifts and ducks slightly so he can arrange one of Aziraphale’s arms over his shoulder. He staggers a few steps forward. It is hard dragging the full weight of a very feverish and confused angel who forgot they have a corporeal body with legs that serve a function. Crowley doesn’t hold it against him. The first time he himself had taken up humanoid form—whew! A limb was unheard of to him, much less four. 

It is nothing short of a few miracles for them to make it up to the top of the stairs. Crowley has a feeling that Aziraphale noticed how much he was struggling, and willed it that they had climbed the entire flight with only one small step. The effort costs him. His knees buckle and Crowley nearly falls as well, until he unfurls the wings from his back to steady the weight of two. 

Aziraphale’s bedroom must be pitying them. It relocates to a rather convenient spot to their left and widens the doorway such that dragging in a half-unconscious angel is easier than it should. 

“Okay, easy there.” He helps Aziraphale onto the bed. He falls fully limp on the mattress, white wings unfolding to make himself more comfortable. Then they curl up again tight against his sides, and he shudders as if experiencing the worst snowstorm of the century while in his own bedroom. 

Crowley shrugs off his leather jacket, depositing it carelessly on the floor. He then climbs up onto the bed and tries for a dignified kneel by Aziraphale’s side. That is, until the mattress dips suddenly and bounces back up (seriously?), throwing him into an extremely awkward crouch over Aziraphale. To make things worse, the angel chooses that very moment to open his eyes. 

His stare is pronounced. Crowley stares back, only seconds away from a panic attack.

The heat rises up to his ears. “Listen. I’m just—I’m just going to take off your coat,” he explains, rather lamely. “Helps with the fever if you’re not wearing like, sixteen layers, trust me.” 

“Unnnnuhhh?” 

That isn’t a no. Nor is it a yes, really, but Crowley isn’t going to clarify. His hands shake— _ why— _ as he peels away the lapels of Aziraphale’s tan coat and pulls it from his back. It almost joins his own jacket on the floor until he realises that he’d probably get slapped. He leaves it folded on the nightstand. 

Aziraphale wears another vest beneath. That has to go too. Crowley pops open the buttons one by one and is needlessly focused on the act. He jumps when a hand curls around his. 

“Crowley?” Aziraphale croaks. His eyes are half-lidded, their blue leaking out like the light of the sun from the horizon.

He stares again, mesmerised. “Huh?”

“‘m not sure if I can do this...” 

What is he talking about?

“Will only take a sec,” Crowley pacifies, pulling the vest off him. He still has a stiff periwinkle linen shirt on, and not to mention, all the buttons are fastidiously done from the cuffs to the collar, down to the very last one. It’s almost like he is  _ trying _ to get a fever. Unbelievable. 

“Oh...” Aziraphale sighs. He closes his eyes. “Alright...” 

He lifts his chin. Crowley reaches in and loosens his bow tie. Then just as he is about to leave it atop the neat stack of clothes (aren’t you proud of him?) on the nightstand, he is yanked unceremoniously down. The mattress hits his back. He yelps, flailing confusedly for a moment, until Aziraphale catches one of his arms and pins it above his head. 

Crowley’s jaw falls slack. But not a single sound comes out, as his mind is too busy smashing the emergency button and sending everything into a blind, catastrophic panic. Aziraphale sadly fails to notice. He leans in closer, eyes aglow while shadowed from the light. Crowley can trace every speck of gold in them. Their noses touch. He breathes in the breath that Aziraphale exhales. Warm. Sweet. Maddening.

Crowley’s heart is hammering so fast and hard he’s sure discorporation has become a real possibility. He has half a mind to squeak and slap a hand over his own mouth just as Aziraphale closes the distance and presses his lips against the back of his hand (thank satan). 

Aziraphale draws back, confused. Crowley chokes and all but  _ flees _ , backing up until he hits the opposing wall of the room as far away from Aziraphale and that bloody bed as possible. 

“Wh—what’re you—” his brain is stock full of choking noises a physical body fails to express. The most enunciable: “ _ What _ .” 

“Sorry my dear, I just...” Aziraphale feels his head, evidently confused. But smug. Confused and smug. “Oh good lord. I don’t know what overcame me. It’s just, you were taking off my clothes, and I—”

“It’s for the fever. THE FEVER.” 

“‘certainly clears things up,” he muses, then collapses face-down into the pillows. “‘m sorry. Are you going to leave?” 

“So you can be alone with your fever? I think not.” He sighs. A set of soft pyjamas miracles into a neat stack in his hands. He presents it to Aziraphale like a peace offering. “Here, put this on.” 

It seems the angel isn’t done mortifying him. Aziraphale leans his cheek against a palm and peers up at him through snowy lashes. “Don’t you want to help, my dear?” 

“ _ You _ — _ nyerkk— _ the same trick won’t work twice!” Crowley hisses and dumps the clothes onto the bed furiously. He then storms off to the kitchen, leaving behind a pouty Aziraphale staring at his retreating back. 

———— 

All those years of being a nanny taught him a couple of things about caring for the sick. One, not to expect anything sensible from them for a few days, two, how to be patient even while he wants to tear his hair out and sink a couple of ducks, and lastly, how to make good porridge. 

It was Warlock’s favourite sick food, and just about the only thing the hellspawn could be coaxed into eating until he felt well enough to stir up trouble again. But human children are frail little things, sick more often than not, always coming down with this and that. Enough opportunities presented themselves for Crowley to perfect his recipe. He has time, he has patience, and a certain standard he sets for himself when it comes to caring for younglings. 

Simply put, Crowley makes damned good porridge.

He spoons some now towards Aziraphale’s mouth, but the angel stubbornly shakes his head.

“Can’t eat that. Throat hurts.  _ Mmmnuhh _ , want crepes,” he says miserably. 

“I’ll buy you all the crepes you want once you get better.” 

Crowley tries again, but he still refuses to eat. In hindsight, he should’ve realised a sick angel will be a bigger handful than a sick human child. While one is accustomed to catching flus every good month or two, the other hasn’t quite the experience of feeling remotely under the weather for a good...well, eternity. 

That said, why did he cook porridge for an  _ angel _ anyway? It isn’t like Aziraphale needed to eat. Oh, but it had always made Warlock feel better and Crowley just thought...

Aziraphale seems to sense his dejection. He stares at the porridge as if it were his greatest enemy for a thoughtful moment, then glances unhappily back at him. “I’ll eat it.” 

“You will?” Crowley lifts a brow, doubtful. 

“If...” he suggests innocently, “You kiss me.” 

His brain short-circuits. Nevertheless, Crowley fights to keep a cool mask of calm. Okay, he can combust,  _ or, _ he can be really cool about this. You’ve got this Crowley. Don’t let the sick, half-delirious patient win.

“After you finish your food,” he says in the same stern voice he used with Warlock. Works every time.

Aziraphale’s brows slant. He squeezes his eyes shut and squares his shoulders and reveals the expression of a small child who is very, very upset and unsure of what is happening to them.

Crowley watches this, unimpressed. 

“Angel.”

Aziraphale sinks under his blanket.

“Angel!”

He has completely retreated under his blanket.

Crowley sighs and sets the porridge aside. The mattress dips under his weight as he crawls onto the bed. Aziraphale does not move. Crowley stares at the mount under the blanket for a few more seconds, before gathering it fully into his arms. He pulls back, lifting a bundled-up Aziraphale onto his lap, and tickles his stomach, thigh, everywhere. 

Underneath the blanket, Aziraphale squeals with laughter and kicks out, the fabric pulling free from his face. “—you willy old serpent—!”

Crowley laughs and kisses his forehead. “There you are, angel.”

He smiles when Aziraphale giggles again, and kisses his nose, his cheeks, and lightly down his neck.

“Crowley, stop—it tickles!” he gasps breathlessly.

“You wanted this, remember?” Crowley smirks into Aziraphale’s shoulder, running his hands over the smooth, silky expanse of the angel’s stomach. “Remember?”

“Alright! Alright! It’s my defeat! The serpent has won fair and square!” Aziraphale can barely speak over his ripples of laughter. Crowley kisses him fully on the lips, drunkenly, messily, and only pulls back when Aziraphale politely reminds him that the porridge is getting cold.

“Oh, so  _ now _ you want to eat my porridge,” he accuses.

“I keep my promises.” Aziraphale shrugs innocently. After a pause he reaches up to twine his arms around the back of Crowley’s neck, and the heat of the contact makes him shiver. “But we  _ will _ continue after I eat your blasted porridge, right my dear?”

“Ngk,” Crowley says.

————

Aziraphale’s fever climbs as weeks creeps slowly by. He mostly sleeps, sometimes for days on end, and Crowley remains by his bedside either rubbing ice water onto his skin or replacing the towel on his forehead or doing the demon’s equivalent of a prayer.

He does not wake often, and Crowley does not force him to. But when he does, Crowley tries to coax a little bit of food and water into him. He eats them, but it is apparent that it does not always makes him feel better and on some occasions, it makes him feel worse.

Crowley doesn’t know what to do. He can only keep sitting here and reassure Aziraphale whenever he wakes that everything is still okay. He asks sometimes, about his shop downstairs and how dust must be getting everywhere on his books, or about heaven and hell—if they are still keeping their part of the bargain of leaving them alone. Sometimes he is frightened, the terror endless and fierce in his feverish delirium. He cries out in the dark and trembles from something Crowley can’t see.

All he can do is hold Aziraphale close, brushing his curls, whispering soothing words into his ear. And it still works, thankfully. Aziraphale will once again return to deep sleep, which makes Crowley feel both immense relief and loneliness. 

Today, Aziraphale is awake a little longer than usual. Crowley hopes it’s because he’s getting better. He takes some tea and a quarter of a scone, but he eats slowly, in full concentration, as if he might become sick again if he’s not careful. 

Crowley can spare a few minutes for himself. He stalks to the kitchen, splashes his face with cold water and pushes the hair from his face (it is getting longer much faster than normal; probably the stress). He then takes a bottle of the strongest wine from wherever Aziraphale keeps his bottles of strong wine, empties it into hot coffee and drinks the entire thing straight from the flask. It’s been his three meals for the past few days now. Something tells him that if he was human he’d be long dead. Since he is fortunate enough to be a demon however, he’ll continue drinking these hellish concoctions as many times he wants.

Aziraphale is done eating by the time Crowley returns. He had changed into a new set of pyjamas, one that comes with a nightcap, and smiles at Crowley when he sees him.

“I’ve been asleep for some time, haven’t I?”

“Quite,” Crowley says, still rubbing the weariness from his eyes. Maybe he should’ve drunk two jugs of his coffee-wine brew. Maybe even added in a red-bull or two.

“Oh, you look exhausted, my dear.” Aziraphale reaches for his hand. His touch is still too warm, too feverish. “I’m so sorry. You shouldn’t have to look after me, I’m…being quite the burden, aren’t I?”

“No.” Crowley shakes his head. “Don’t say that.”

“Thank you, dear boy,” he says quietly. “Can you come here for a bit?”

Crowley complies. He settles by Aziraphale’s side and very nearly falls asleep once his head touches the pillow. Aziraphale holds him close. Crowley inhales deeply, leaning his forehead into his collarbone and wrapping his arms around his waist to pull him even closer. A white wing drapes tenderly over him.

“This isn’t right,” Crowley murmurs sleepily. “I should…be the one taking care of you.”

“You are,” Aziraphale hums into his ear. “Sleep, my dear. I’ll be alright.”

————

When Crowley awakes, it is morning three days later. The angel is still asleep beside him. He checks his temperature, replaces the towel on his forehead and fluffs up his pillow.

Right—Aziraphale mentioned something about dusting his books for him. He heads downstairs to take a look. Speaking of books, he wonders how his plants are doing. Horribly, most likely. No matter how threatened a plant is to grow better than a young sapling in the amazon rainforest, no plants can go without water for three weeks. Except his cacti. Resilient little buggers. They deserve a commendation.

Once downstairs, Crowley ties up his hair, miracles up a feather-duster and gets to work. He switches the radio on for good measure. It was playing Mozart, Chopin, some more Mozart, and then, the voice of Hell speaking directly to him.

“THE MEETING IS TODAY, CROWLEY.”

“Is it, Lord?” He dusts a statue of a…unicorn…cherub…something.

“ALL FORCES OF HELL ARE REQUIRED TO ATTEND. EVEN YOU, CROWLEY.”

He thinks of some excuse for later on. “Understood, Lord.”

“IF YOU DO NOT TURN UP, THERE WILL BE CONSEQUENCES.”

Ah shit. “Er. ‘Course, my lord. I’ll be there.”

“CONSEQUENCESSS,” they stress again, before Mozart’s Turkish March floods back in.

“ _ Consequencesssss _ ,” Crowley mimics with a scowl, but obviously his ‘s’ consonants are way better. “Stupid. Stupid. Stupid—”

He wipes the windows with way more spite than he should. They are sparkling by the time he finished venting out his anger. He picks up the heavy leather-bound book of Adam and Eve and scowls harder at the portrait of himself (Aziraphale never explained why he has it).

“Sure, we’ll leave you alone, Crowley. Sure, do whatever you want Crowley, but come back for our stupid annual meeting anyway.” He spots a frog at the bottom of the portrait, and groans. “ _ Hastur _ .”

It seems there is no avoiding this. But far worse than any meeting in Hell or sour-tempered demons wearing frogs on their heads is breaking the news to Aziraphale.

He does not take it well.

“ _ Meeting? _ What sort of meeting? The everyone-come-gather-and-kill-Crowley kind?” Aziraphale exclaims furiously. “It’s a trap, my dear!”

“No no, well. It’s—nghh—not  _ really _ a meeting. More like a party, y’know? Come and report your bad deeds, get a token, mingle mangle, gossip about the angels.” The first two parts are alright. Crowley had gotten a gold egg once (meant for decoration, and not eating as he so tragically found out a few hours later).

“Then why on  _ earth _ must you go?”

“Attendance’s compulsory. If it isn’t, do you really think anyone’ll show up? Picture good old Lord Beelzebub alone on their throne, wearing a special party banner, but no one is there. Nada.”

Aziraphale’s agitation subsides a little. “Well. It is a bit sad if you think about it.”

“I’ll be fast. Pop down, convince Beelzebub that there’s still some value in my life, get a medal and pop back up. I  _ promise _ , angel.”

Aziraphale looks deeply unnerved. He struggles out of bed, rises to his feet with a wobble and fights Crowley’s hands that tried to push him back down. “I can’t just sit here while you’re surrounded by  _ demons _ , Crowley! I’ll come with you.”

Crowley gawks. “ _ Come _ with me? What—angel. You’re an  _ angel _ .”

“Not when I look like this.”

Aziraphale concentrates, then practically implodes into a puff of white smoke. Crowley jumps back a few feet. Once the clouds dissipated, Aziraphale is gone, but in his place stands a fluffy barn owl wearing a tartan bow tie.

Crowley can’t believe his eyes. He sinks onto his knees, jaw still agape, and scoops the round owl into his hands.

“Angel?” he squeaks.

“Right here, Crowley.” The owl winks. Its eyes are wickedly blue. “Now, take us to Hell!”

————

Crowley has taken the front entrance to Hell many times, but never with an owl on his head. He has to admit he is slightly nervous. So many things can go wrong. If they are caught, it won’t be him getting into trouble—oh who is he kidding, he probably will too—but Aziraphale will get the brunt of the demons’ wrath. That should not be taken lightly. Demons hate angels almost as much as Crowley loves Aziraphale, which is to say, a whole lot.

Crowley tries to ignore the churning of his stomach as he takes the escalator down into Hell. He sees a couple of colleagues, says hello without seeming too nice and turns away from their shocked gazes. Right. He’s an enemy of Hell now. Either that or a weirdo slash complete alien. No one is supposed to act all chummy-chummy with him if they still value their reputation. 

Ah...he wants to go home. 

The farther he struts, the easier it is to get used to the many gawks and scowls aimed his way. So it comes as a surprise when a demon obstinately blocks his path. Not to mention, a massive annoyance too. 

Crowley grits his teeth. “Hastur.”

The duke of hell glares back at him. “Bastard.” 

“Come on, at least call me by my name.” 

“What in satan’s name is  _ that  _ on your head?”

Aziraphale shuffles on his head, making a show of puffing out his feathers. 

Crowley acts unperturbed. “My animal hat, of course. Don’t you have one of your own?”

Hastur grasps his frog as if affronted that Crowley had even looked at it. 

“You...where is your snake?”

“Hastur!” Crowley reels, shocked, “You can’t just ask to see someone’s snake!”

A couple of demons ogle at this exchange as they pass by. There are a couple of embarrassed coughs, two or more disgusted grunts and definitely many, many stares. 

Hastur is only seconds away from imploding in utter rage. Crowley purses his lips and bites his tongue. The stinging pain is the only thing holding him back from a full-blown, slap-your-knees kind of laughter.

“Enough,” snaps a stern voice. A short figure donned with a fly cap storms between the two of them. Crowley and Hastur quickly sinks into a bow. Beelzebub’s wake leaves behind a sharp pang in the air, one that makes every hair on his arms stand on end. Crowley cups a hand over his mouth. It smells like…

“An  _ angel _ ,” Hastur hisses, so venomously that Crowley has to hand it to him if he isn’t so busy freaking out himself. Demons all around start sniffing furiously. They have good reason to; something does smell  _ Good  _ around here, in a bad way. It’s worth stirring up a big ruckus for. 

Crowley breaks out in cold sweat. Are they screwed? Actually, properly screwed? He spares a terrified glance towards Lord Beelzebub. They had made themself comfortable on their throne, and now drums their fingers ever so impatiently on the armrest. A white peacock notably perches on the headboard. It is careful not to make too many unnecessary movements, as if trying to be as invisible as possible. As if it knows it should be anywhere but here. 

Aziraphale stiffens on his head. Understandable; no one wants to see their boss when they least expect to. Crowley takes his glasses slowly off his face. Hell below and heavens above. 

“Lord Beelzebub,” he yells over the ruckus, creating something of a ruckus himself. He is still a demon after all. “S’cuse me, but what the  _ fuck _ ?” 

“Demon Crowley, iz there something you want to say?” Beelzebub’s penetrating gaze bears down upon him. It almost hurts as much as a mistful of holy water. He highly suspects it is because the peacock (the Archangel fucking Gabriel) is glaring at him too, indigo eyes showing a flash of divine light. 

Crowley starts to sweat again, reduced to stuttering ‘er’s and ‘ngk’s. 

“No, my Lord,” he says instead, wishing he can just go home. Aziraphale sways on his head in that moment, and falls. Crowley veers to his left to catch him. Their two respective bosses have not stopped staring at them. Crowley laughs nervously, “Ha, be right back.”

He all but dashes out of there. In a secluded corner, he gently sets Aziraphale onto the ground and lets him lean against a cool wall. His owl forms distorts, and in the next second he reverts back into a human. 

“Sorry my dear,” he says sadly. “It just smells so  _ evil  _ in here. Makes me a bit sick.” 

Crowley feels his forehead. Hotter than before. A knife of guilt hits him. “No, angel. We shouldn’t have come at all.” 

Aziraphale presses a hand against his chest and starts to cough. Something splatters from his mouth, drops of shimmering, golden light. They burn holes on the dirty ceramic tiles. He gasps for air, each breath whistling as it sands in and out. 

Crowley’s throat constricts in panic. He pulls Aziraphale flush against him, holding his head back so he can breathe easier. 

“Angel, angel please. Hang in there, okay? I’ll get us both out in a second—” 

“Crowley.” Aziraphale pales. Then a shadow falls over his eyes and his lips pull into a scowl. “Get behind me.” 

He still has a lot of strength for someone who had coughed up blood a moment prior. Crowley is yanked behind Aziraphale’s back. The angel kneels with one knee with both arms spread out, shielding him from the Archangel that stands glaring down at them.

“Principality Aziraphale,” Gabriel says, with the dry amusement of a boss who had just found his employee dozing off somewhere, “You look worse for wear.” 

“Hello Gabriel. It’s nice to see you,” Aziraphale begins, with his usual angelic politeness. He then deadpans and narrows his eyes. “Now go away.” 

“No no, don’t go away!” Crowley exclaims. He scrambles to his feet and gingerly tries to step past Aziraphale. But the angel does not let him. He wraps himself around his leg stubbornly, refusing to let go. “Angel, let me speak to him—”

“That stupid man isn’t worth speaking to—” 

“Gabriel, we need your help!” Crowley says desperately. 

“No we most definitely do not!” Aziraphale almost growls. 

“Fine, _ I _ need your help!” He drops onto his knees, holding Aziraphale by the shoulders. “Please tell me how to help him.” 

Gabriel barely bats a cold indigo eye. “And why might I want to help a demon and a runaway angel?”

Sweat runs down the sides of Crowley’s face. His fingers dig into the grime of the floor, but once upon a time they used to dip into the heart of the cosmos themselves. He hadn’t been alone then; there were few archangels and the universe started out as a very lonely place. It was easy to unite with others in the joy of creation. Gabriel made the planets, and Raphael had adorned them with stars. 

“Please,” Crowley begs, shriveling up. Pre-Fall memories are painful. Speaking to the ones you knew then are even more. 

“Crowley!” Aziraphale’s face is full of hurt. He knows. He always does. 

Gabriel turns away. Crowley bites his lip, hard enough to draw blood. He should’ve known. There is no mercy to be spared whether Above or Below. He and Aziraphale have always been left to their own devices, expecting no sympathy from anyone. It is the reason why they found such great comfort in each other. 

Something flashes in the air. Crowley reaches up last minute to catch it. It is a vial full of clear liquid, sealed tightly shut with a wax stopper. Not even a single drop can escape. 

“Angels rarely get sick, but when they do, the only cure is Holy Water,” Gabriel says without turning back. He has already begun to walk away. “Give it to him fast if you don’t want to see him discorporate.” 

Aziraphale stares at that retreating grey suit, a torn expression on his face. Crowley can only grasp the vial tightly, his heart racing in his chest. 

“Wish you both the best of luck.” Gabriel lifts a hand, and with a sweep of his great white wings, disappears. 

The double doors of the throne room burst open suddenly. Inside, demons are definitely clawing at each other’s throats and throwing a bunch of plates everywhere. A furious Beelzebub storms out, shuts the doors, and regards them furiously. “Iz he gone, that beanstalk?”

“Gabriel?” Aziraphale blinks. “Yes. Yes, I suppose he has.” 

“Get out, ze two of you! Demon Crowley, do  _ not  _ bring your angel here ever again. Thiz is ze last time I’ll help you!” Beelzebub sneers. Then with a snap of their fingers, the dingy darkness of Hell melts perfectly away under the rays of a vivid London sunset. They are home, safe and sound. 

“Dear boy,” Aziraphale says, exhausted, “I think I need a lie down.”

“Same here.” A century-long nap sounds just about right. 

————

Aziraphale does not let him anywhere near the holy water. Crowley watches a safe distance away, behind the cover of his kitchen counter as Aziraphale melts the seal off the vial and pours its contents carefully into a cup. 

He brings the cup to his lips and takes a large gulp. Crowley comes closer, leaning his cheek into his palm with a small smile. 

“Better?”

“Much.” Light has returned to Aziraphale’s sapphire eyes. “I could kiss you right now, dear boy—”

“You’ll melt my mouth right off,” Crowley quips. “Y’know, if all you needed was holy water, you could’ve just told me and I would've gotten it for you. I guess...it’s kind of my fault that you suffered for so long, huh.” He hangs his head. 

“No, my dear, no!” Fingers reach out to raise his chin gently up. Their eyes meet, and with one glance Aziraphale shows him all his love and appreciation until Crowley feels weak in the knees. “I had no idea what was happening to me. I’ve never been ill before, and without you, Crowley? I would’ve been scared out of my wits! I suppose I really can’t live without you, my willy old serpent.”

Crowley laughs, holding him by the back of the waist. “You’re so cheesy, angel.” 

“I mean every word.” Aziraphale presses a kiss to his lips. “Thank you, dear boy. And we must really thank Gabriel and Beelzebub too.”

He groans. “I am  _ not  _ talking to them under voluntary circumstances.”

“Do you think a simple gift basket will suffice?”

“Hmm.” Crowley thinks about this. “I heard Paris is quite romantic this time of the year. Essspecially for young couples.” He grins and presses his forehead against Aziraphale’s. 

He stifles a wicked chortle into his hands. “Now isn’t that awfully nice of you, Crowley?”

“Perhaps.” Crowley snaps his fingers, and a pair of plane tickets to Paris, plus accommodation has just appeared on Beelzebub’s desk (in open view of the court too). But alas, hotel rooms are expensive and he can only afford one bed. The bright side? There is only one bed. 

Crowley decides to leave a little note saying ‘enjoy’ in infuriating cursive on the said bed. A few scatterings of rose petals too. After all, their two bosses  _ deserve  _ the very best. 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm hungry and starving and so tired but I am going to finish this fic by tonight at all costs (｀Д´)
> 
> Edit: Oh heck I'm finally done. Why does this fic seem like 10 ideas crammed into one, hahaha I'm so sorry. Finals are over so I have so much more time to write! I'll go work on my reverse omens AU real quick ;)   
Anyways, thank you so much for reading!! Truth is writing was getting tiring for me, but it became real fun again after good omens got me back into fic writing. I really appreciate all the kind kudos and comments you guys leave for me (but sometimes I'm too scared to reply to comments aaah) >< thank you so, so much!


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